


Made in Mos Espa

by kylohen, thedevilchicken



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Dildos, Masturbation, Other, sand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 03:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17399354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylohen/pseuds/kylohen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Anakin hates sand. However, sand comes in many forms.





	Made in Mos Espa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [halfeatenmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfeatenmoon/gifts).



> Happy EADmas, halfeatenmoon! 
> 
> For the tag _Anakin Skywalker/Glass dildo made from Tatooine sand_. Anakin would be distraught. Or would he...

He should hate it. He should loathe it. He should want it banished from his sight. 

It's made of glass. It's long and thick and smooth in his hands, cold for a start but it warms up quickly. The Jedi rules say _no attachments_ but they don't strictly say _no sex_ ; when he lies in bed at night, the dildo warming up as it lies against his belly, that's what he tells himself. He has no reason to feel guilty. 

He turns onto his hands and knees once he's good and ready, thinking about the things he'll do. He keeps a kind of mineral oil next to the bed with a toolkit and a few spare parts, so he can explain it away should he find he ever has to, but he only ever uses it as lube. It glistens when he squeezes it onto the glass, his fingers wrapped tight at the base. He closes his eyes and he spreads his legs; he holds his breath and he begins. 

He teases the tip against his perineum and then up to the tight, waiting hole between his cheeks. If he severs the connection to the sensory inputs in his synthetic hand, it's almost like it's someone else that's fucking him in slow, deep strokes. If he turns up the heat and keeps the blinds wide open to the afternoon sun, it's almost like he's back on Tatooine. He knows that's where it came from, and he knows exactly what it's made from. He tested it. He knows it's true.

On Tatooine, the sand gets everywhere. It's in your hair and in your clothes, in every pair of shoes you own and, if you're not really careful, it gets in other places, too. He used to find a teaspoon's worth or more collected on his bedsheets every morning. He'd shake a desert out of his boots each night. Now, here he is, fucking himself with it. It's not the first time he's done it, and he doubts it'll be the last. 

He comes with it pushed up inside himself, pulling tight around it, flushed and out of breath and a bit stiff in his knees. He shouldn't do it but he just can't help himself. He should throw it away but he just can't make himself. It should feel so very, very wrong, but feels so very, very right. Maybe it's his way of punishing himself, or maybe it's something else completely.

He should hate it, but he doesn't. He should probably feel guilty, but he doesn't. 

This is one place he never thought the sand would get, at least.


End file.
